The Palaver Tree

By Wendy Unsworth

Berriwood village, Cornwall, England; quiet, uneventful like the pace of schoolteacher Ellie's selfless existence.
One fateful meeting. One tragic event ......and one chance to do something more meaningful with her life.
The African school where Ellie volunteers seems like the perfect place to make every day count, but very soon there are more questions than answers. Is the school, where Ellie teaches, the place of loving and caring she had first thought it to be? And is headteacher, Gabriel Cole, really their guardian angel?
As deceit and lies begin to surface, Ellie's unquestioning faith in fate and fair play is shattered. With time comes the awful realisation that the betrayal stretches back, across the miles, all the way to her sleepy, village home.
Finally the time comes when she must choose between holding on to her principles or taking matters into her own hands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wendy Unsworth
• Release date: Mar 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476248868

Wendy Unsworth

Wendy Unsworth was born and raised in Lincolnshire; her passions are her family, travel, beautiful gardens and reading and writing stories. Wendy lived in Ndola, Zambia and Nairobi, Kenya throughout the 1980's and early '90's before returning to the U.K. to acclimatise back to the English weather in a Cornish cottage close to Bodmin Moor! She is currently based in the north west of England. The African continent has left a lasting impression; The Palaver Tree, is set in a fictional Central African country and Cornwall. At present Wendy is working on her second novel, Beneathwood, re-introducing cameo characters from The Palaver Tree and telling their own individual story.

Book preview

The Palaver Tree

(Berriwood Series - Book 1)

By

Wendy Unsworth

Copyright 2012 Wendy Unsworth

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Cover design by CQR

Dedication

No project like this can be achieved without the help of others

Firstly I would like to thank the many wonderful and colourful characters that our family was privileged to know during thirteen years in Central Africa.

Closer to home, special thanks go to Dr Sam Wilson and to Karen Hydes for being my gentle but honest first readers; thank you for your attention to detail and hard work and for your enthusiasm. I really needed that! Thanks also to Adam Unsworth at CQR for taking the headache out of my hands and providing expertise and flair beyond my capabilities and to Richard who has helped and encouraged me every step of the way and never once asked when I would be finished. I love you all.

Table of Contents

Prologue

The River

Winter

Dry Season

The Rains

Two Rivers

Contact the Author

Beneathwood

Prologue

The day of his leaving was never an ordinary day. His destination might be to Kisangane for a meeting with This Important Minister or That One, or a fishing trip to the Chobe River with members of the Central Committee, or even a visit to the office in London, but his leaving was always the same, not ordinary. There was a tension in the house like musical strings, stretched to their limit and fit to snap. Promise felt it in her stomach where moon moths fluttered and in her chest where her heart thudded like the sound of mealies being pounded in a pot. From the earliest hour of the day she was poised at the ready, waiting to be needed, waiting to be called.

Hector, the driver, would be out of sight in the garage behind the shamba, running a polishing cloth over the leather seats of the Mercedes, cleaning out the ashtrays, checking for any stubs he deemed long enough for reuse. He tucked these selected morsels surreptitiously into the cigar tin that he kept in his pocket. At the Big House, hushed laughter always greeted a mention of that little flat tin; Hector’s secret that was no secret at all.

Now Hector would be looking at his watch, making sure he was not too early, making sure he was not too late. He would bring the car around to the front of the house five minutes before departure, exactly as instructed.

Maxwell would be hiding in the kitchen, breakfast duties over, making the washing up last through to the end of the crisis period. Soft, the Gardener, would have found flowers to tend way over at the back of the house beyond the swimming pool and in amongst the frangipanis where he would not be spotted.

Gabriel was almost ready.

The River

‘I walked down to Duke’s Daily’s for a birthday card this morning,’ Diane Henderson said. ‘Looks suspiciously like another round of fisticuffs has been going on.’ She gave Ellie a knowing, tight-lipped nod and circled an eye with a forefinger.

From his basket in the corner, Gus raised a hopeful brow at the word walk, recognised instantly that his luck was out and huffed as he slumped back into semi-sleep.

Ellie Hathaway was dipping brandy–soaked cherries in chocolate and dotting them to set, like an invading hoard, on a landscape of greaseproof paper. A little too much enthusiasm in the Tasting Department had left her feeling vaguely nauseous and honestly, one look across the counter-top told the story; she was far more accomplished at eating than fancy presentation. But at least she was helping. Diane was holding one of her charity lunches the following day and Ellie had insisted, ‘As I’m not actually going to be there, I must make some sort of contribution.’

Opposite Ellie, Diane’s practised fingers rolled marzipan into fancy shapes on a corner of the granite-topped island in the kitchen at Calico house. They could have saved themselves the extra job of transporting the finished sweets by doing the preparation in Diane’s kitchen, but when Ellie suggested it, Diane had crinkled up her Sad Face,

Lets do it at yours, so much more fun.

Diane was still girlishly fascinated with every aspect of Calico from the gadget stuffed kitchen to the row of bells on the wall down in the old servant’s quarters. She was tall, groomed and stately; whenever she entered the house she seemed to slot seamlessly into its princely surroundings like a finely fashioned component.

Ellie, on the other hand, regarded herself as jarringly misplaced like Morecambe and Large or Roast Beef and Sticky Toffee Pudding. Even after two years of marriage, she often woke with the feeling that she was somewhere she didn’t belong and would be caught, any moment, on the loose without an entrance ticket.

Ellie completed the latest, delicate manoeuvre from chocolate bowl to paper and looked up at this new revelation. In a community like Berriwood it was impossible to poop without at least half the population knowing about it. Village whispers circled; observations laced with lurid conjecture gathered mass like downhill snowballs. ‘Do you think it was Pete again?’

‘Him or the box that she claimed catapulted itself off the top shelf in the shop and shot right into her eye!’ Diane glanced the heel of her hand off her forehead. ‘This is not idle gossip, El. She hangs around after rehearsals to tell me her sob story and the next thing she’s covering up for him. I’m beginning to wish I’d kept my mouth shut and never asked her to join.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

Diane huffed, sounding incredibly like Gus. ‘Possibly not,’ she conceded. Caroline Duke was a natural seamstress, neat and imaginative. She was proving to be an indispensible asset to the Berriwood Amateur Dramatic Society and had been pathetically grateful when Diane invited her to join. But Diane had the growing feeling she was going to be just too damn time consuming with all her personal problems.

Ellie gave a sympathetic sigh, ‘I think those two should get some help.’

Diane picked up a pinwheel she had only just carefully assembled and unrolled the pink and yellow marzipan, teasing away morsels and condemning them to her merciless jaws. ‘What kind of help though? Her eyes went to the ceiling as if the answer might be found there. ‘Even sober he’s a complete waste of oxygen.’ She brushed the last crumbs of marzipan from her fingers. ‘He should do the planet a favour and expire.’

‘Di!’ Ellie objected.

‘Exactly.’

They both spluttered out a laugh. Ellie flapped her chocolaty fingers and grabbed a wad of paper towel. ‘You can offer her advice but you can’t make her take it,’ she said, knowing that Diane had seriously tried. ‘The shop would be hard work if she ended up on her own but…’

Diane grimaced, ‘The lazy bugger never lifts a finger to help, anyway. She’d be better off with a hamster or a gerbil; something she can keep contained.’

‘Sooner or later it’ll work itself out.’ Ellie ran a finger around the bottom of the chocolate bowl, chasing a remaining drip and declaring the job done. She would have been happy to let the subject lie.

But Diane shook her blonde head. She had pinned back her hair; wisps were breaking free and framing her face. She blew away the strays from her eyes and circled her arms wide. ‘In the Wonderful World of Ellie, rotten husbands mend their ways and axe –wielding murderers find God and go off to dig wells in Africa.‘

‘Okay, okay, you may scoff.’ Ellie conducted her point gently with a cocktail stick. ‘All I’m saying is that, by one means or another, people get what they deserve, good or bad, I really believe it.’ She gave her friend a long look, ‘You know I do.’

Diane playfully chose to ignore Ellie’s sobriety. ‘Mmm, Maybe tonight I’ll get what I deserve. Neil will arrive home with a big bunch of roses in one hand and tickets for a Caribbean cruise in the other.’

Lately, any sentence honoured with a mention of her husband was apt to haemorrhage sarcasm like warm treacle through a sieve.

‘Still working too hard?’

Diane sniffed and held the back of her hand against a mock yawn, ‘Oh, he’s restricting it to waking hours these days.’

‘He’s doing it for you and Jamie.’ Ellie reached across the counter, making a cursory check for chocolate before giving her friend’s arm a comforting squeeze.

‘Huh, so he keeps telling me, have you two been cosying up?’

She didn’t mean it, of course, and Ellie wouldn’t distinguish such a remark with a reply.

The silence was just long enough for Diane to repent, ‘We were fine the way we were,’ she declared, speaking with sullen certainty and setting her lips in the stubborn line that Ellie so admired. It was that determined look that had established the Berriwood Amateur Dramatic Society, when all the old fuddy-duddies said no one would be interested. It resurrected the Tuesday Club for elderly residents and raised thousands of pounds for charity.

It was the look that made things happen.

Nevertheless, when it came to Neil, it seemed to freeze into a concrete slab, cold and hard and resolutely immoveable.

‘You were.’

‘What?’

‘Fine. You said, we were fine but that was only you wasn’t it? Neil was miserable.’

‘He had a good, solid wage coming in.’ Seeing Ellie’s expression she held up her hands, ‘I know, I know there’s more to life and all that. But there should be more to life than work and now he’s just so bloody consumed by it.’

‘Getting a business started is a massive undertaking, you said it yourself.’

‘I said that almost two years ago.’

‘These things take time. C’mon Di, this is Neil we’re talking about, the original perfect husband.’

‘Yes well, it may have taken almost twenty years but I’m beginning to wonder.’

There was no moving her; Ellie hit a brick wall every time she tried. But Neil had resigned from his job because he saw what was coming; he leapt at the very last moment denying his boss the satisfaction of escorting him to the door. No one could blame him for that, well, no one but Diane.

‘Maybe you should cut down on your own commitments a bit, you know, be around for him more when he’s home.’

Diane looked appalled, ‘What, be a little dishrag waiting with his pipe and slippers? Sex on a Saturday night after two glasses of wine and the X Factor results, never!’

Ellie had to laugh, Di was the most glamorous, accomplished person she knew, a vision of a dishrag never looked so lovely. She tried a different tack, ‘It’s bound to take the pressure off now that Jamie’s finished Uni and joining the company full time. Isn’t it?’

Before they started on their chocolate marathon Ellie had opened a bottle of wine and left it to breathe on the counter top. Now Diane swept it up and filled the two glasses that stood beside it. Handing one to Ellie she said, ‘And if it doesn’t, will Neil get what he deserves? Will I?’

Around noon the following day Berriwood experienced a flurry of vehicular activity; in their backwater of the world it constituted a traffic jam.

Parked cars lined the lane from Cornerstone, Diane and Neil’s sprawling barn conversion, high up on a ridge above the village, all the way down as far as Berriwood Bridge. An intoxicating buzz excited the languid country air as glad-clad guests abandoned their 4x4’s and soft tops and made their way up the hill.

Local folk, who had declined the opportunity to part with twenty-five pounds for a lunch ticket, submitted eagerly to their curiosity and found outdoor pursuits; gardening jobs to tend, dogs to exercise and washing to be hung out. Anything that would provide a better view.

Diane gratefully saluted the Gods of Lunch Parties as she slid back the patio doors, extending the gathering outside into the sun filled garden. Things had looked decidedly iffy just a couple of hours before, grey and uninviting, but the Cornish skies had cleared after a stern talking to.

The chatter, appreciative noises and occasional, high peel of laughter drifted down the ridge to the residents below. Gabriel Cole, director of The Hope Foundation, headmaster, speaker and guest of honour, transfixed his supporters, yet again, with his charm and his own unique take on life in an African school. He thanked everyone humbly for their presence, their continued support and asked them to scour out every last penny from their pockets. In most cases, they did.

And after all the planning, all the hard work, by half past five it was over. Diane kissed and thanked and waved. Cars shunted and turned and pip-pipped their goodbyes. Berriwood seemed to sigh appreciatively as its bloated population shrank back to its former shape, like an old leather chair relieved of a burdensome bottom.

Evening approached and familiar, time-honoured routines resumed their well-worn tunes around the rutted, undulating centre of the village. The post office, Dukes Daily’s and The Pastry Case were all-quiet, blinds drawn down. Lights were evident in the flats above the row of shops now that darkness was approaching, though only one of the dwellings was occupied.

In their cramped nest over The Pastry Case, Jessica and Ryan Talbot had just cuddled up together on their sofa to watch a DVD, praying that their baby of seven weeks was going to give them a break and sleep for two hours.

Directly opposite, above the Cornish Arms, Tina Myers was pleading with her nine-year-old son, Nick, to get his homework finished. The bar was busy; two table bookings were due and a supposedly reliable girl they had taken on only a week ago had called in sick.

Coopers Garage closed just as the last of the lunch party stragglers were making their way out of the village but Jas was still inside fitting new brake shoes on Beryl Carroll’s old banger. He was tired and so damned hungry that he was hallucinating about the meat and potato pie he had sitting on a plate in his fridge. His only compensation; he was late because some stuck-up prick with a sports car and a brain the size of a peanut had followed his Sat Nav into Howletts’ Ford, right in! Hadn’t stopped until the water was lapping gently around his balls.

Such moments made a lousy job worthwhile.

Just before nine o’clock, a volley of sudden, shrill, cries rang out at the centre of this quiet, little cluster of businesses and dwellings, ripping a tear into the rapidly descending dusk.

‘What the?’ ………. Jas Cooper would later tell Pete Duke that his immediate thought had been screeching brakes, so close that something was about to plough right through the closed garage door and iron him out flat. Sheer bloody, self-preservation started him moving out from beneath Beryl’s rust bucket. But a sudden full blown and unmistakable scream made him jerk his head up before he cleared the sill. A piece of jutting metal carved a three-inch gash along his forehead. He grabbed an oily rag and ran out into the road where a couple of teenage girls were crying and clinging to one another as though they had a pack of dogs taking bites out of their backsides.

The pub regulars spilled out onto the path. Pete Duke was among them, clutching his usual pint of cider in one hand and knocking back a shot of something with the other. Pub Landlord, Sandy Myers, was interested enough to look out, over the heads of his customers, from the Lounge Bar step, but his curiosity didn’t stretch to straying any further from his unattended bar. Both he and the assembled crowd looked on as the diminutive Tina pushed through them to take control of the situation, marching into the street, her ponytail bobbing authoritatively behind her.

‘Calm down, girls, it’s okay,’ she called, approaching them. ‘Come on now, big deep breaths.’

The girls acquiesced, turning willingly into the protection of her outstretched arms. As she led them to a wooden bench set out on the little gravel garden at the front of the pub, young Nick, who had seized this timely excuse and abandoned his bedtime ablutions, ran in to fetch glasses of water.

Tina urged, ‘Slowly now. Just one at a time.’

In the flat above the Pastry Case, the Talbot’s baby, disturbed by the commotion, let out a piercing yell of its own. The DVD was switched to pause and Jessica jumped up to comfort the child whilst Ryan, shaking himself out of the mental haze that had been dragging his eyelids closed and his brain into the mush of sleep, pulled back the net curtain and looked down into the street. As Jessica came back into the room rocking and shushing and pulling at her top to free her breast, Ryan was already at the door shouting back to his wife that he was going down to find out what the fuck was happening outside. Jessica bristled with indignation and called after him, asking if he wanted their son’s first word to be dada or what?

Down in the street, Registered Nurse, Ryan, pulled the oily rag off the area over Jas Cooper’s right eye, ‘Better get down to A&E, you’re gonna need some stitches in that, mate.’

Tina urged Ryan on, ‘We’ll take care of that,’ she said, blotting Jas’s wound with a fresh glass cloth, ‘just go!’

The baby was awake, the film was ruined and Ryan suspected that he was going to find nothing more horrific than a mess of old feedbags and tangled branches floating in the river, but he knew that it had to be checked out. As he set off toward Berriwood Bridge with a posse of puffing followers he called for someone to go check if Dr Wynne was at home, just in case this thing turned out to be human after all.

Ellie:

First thing that morning Ellie had taken her usual walk across the village to Christmas Cottage, the house she had shared with mother for thirty-five of her thirty – seven years. Since she had married John, a routine of sorts had been established. Mornings were primarily for mother: chores, correspondence, cups of tea. Afternoons were, supposedly, Ellie’s time but inevitably she was called upon to make further, unscheduled visits when some calamity or other had happened.

‘It’s ridiculous, Ellie, you over there in that huge house on your own. Why don’t you stay here while he’s away?’ It was always he. Mother never accorded John the simple courtesy of using his name.

‘John is coming home this afternoon, remember?’ Ellie said, buttering bread and refusing to be distracted. ‘And you could move in with us anytime, Mum. John told you that. You would have your own rooms, a lovely patio overlooking the garden and I could take care of you whenever you needed me, keep you company.’ Seeing the look on mother’s face, she might as well have been trying to persuade her to move into a condo on Miami Beach.

‘But this is our home.’

‘No Mum, it’s your home. I’m married now.‘

She was poorly; allowances had to be made. The bronchitis never seemed to clear up fully these days. Her joints were painful and made worse by her preponderance for random and supposedly urgent tasks, like the arbitrary clearing out of drawers or the ‘spring cleaning’ of ornaments; not just a dusting but everything to be taken down and plunged into a bucket of soapy water.

Ellie refilled a hot water bottle that mother used as a soother for her back and put tablets on the sideboard with a sticky note beside them ‘ take before tea’. She made a ham sandwich with slices of hard-boiled egg, wrapped it and put it in the fridge in a plastic container with a snap on lid. She made sure that the TV remote was handy and prepared a flask of weak tea.

Just before eleven o’clock Ellie collected her bag and prepared to leave. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow morning,’ she said, bending to kiss her mother’s cheek. ‘We’ll change your bed and put a wash on.’

‘Not tonight?’

‘John will be home later, remember?’

‘I’ll just have to manage then.’

‘You should have everything you need but call me if you have a problem.’

‘I won’t; I don’t want to be a burden.’

Ellie had expected John to be back from his latest business trip by the time Diane’s first lunch guests were arriving. Inevitably perhaps, after six weeks away and twenty, long hours on the homeward journey, he was late.

The afternoon doggedly dragged its heels as Ellie waited, abandoning plans for a ploughman’s salad, getting the meat started, slicing French beans. Finally John’s arrival coincided almost precisely with the outpouring of traffic leaving the village. Ellie met him on the doorstep with the sense of a wasted day but also thankful, outstretched arms and the words, ‘At last!’

Tired and saddle-sore but bravely clinging to his sense of humour, he kissed her and asked, ‘Did someone shout fire?’

They ate a leisurely dinner, catching up. His news, her news; his was far more interesting, of course.

‘The house is looking great.’

Ellie stretched like a contented cat, ‘Peg is a marvel,’ she said.

John reached out to her across the table, ‘You are a marvel too.’

In his eyes, yes, though she still had no idea why.

John looked across the room at Gus. The old dog was poised with his head down on his paws, but his large rheumy eyes were alert for any sign that it was time to fetch his lead. Seeing the look, he was on his feet as quickly as his old bones would creak and crunch their way into an upright arrangement.

‘I’ll just take him before it gets dark,’ John said. ‘Coming?’

‘No, I’ll let you two boys have some quality time together.’ Gus did his duty when John was away but his allegiance to Ellie was strictly an arrangement of convenience. Within minutes of John’s return to Calico House, Gus was sticking that drooly muzzle of his into John’s immaculate lap and looking up at him with doughy love eyes.

‘Sure?’

‘I’ll tidy away, you go.’

‘It can wait.’

‘Yes, but I’ll stay anyway, I want to,’ Ellie said. ‘I’ve got a few things to do.’

Gus was standing at the door, swatting out a steady beat on the coat stand. ‘Go!’ She mock shooed John away, waving a napkin at him, ‘I have a little surprise for you, something small, when you get back.’

‘Ah!’

‘If I tell you any more it won’t be a surprise at all.’

He nodded, ‘Okay, I had better do as I am told then. Won’t be long.’ Just as Gus wriggled his podgy body between the open door and Johns’ legs he turned back and added, ‘Come to think about it, I might have a little something for you too.’ He flashed her a smile and off they went, John in his shirtsleeves, the big, old black Labrador with the wonky back leg, foraging ahead.

Ellie busily applied herself to the self-appointed task of clearing away the dishes. The meal had been better than her expectations and, even more surprisingly, they had not been interrupted by mother ringing half way through, wanting Ellie to rush over and change a light bulb or open a stubborn jar or scramble under the bed again in search of her knee ointment.

She made her way upstairs, along the corridor, through the master bedroom, drew back the voile drapes and clipped the French windows open. This was the last little touch, coffee on the bedroom balcony with the glorious, though rapidly fading, view over the front garden to enjoy.

Earlier she had put out a vase of Gerbera daisies and a bowl of floating tea lights on the low wooden table. Now, she fussed about with seat pads and scatter cushions on the matching chairs. She carefully positioned a book she had bought for John, wrapped in blue tissue and tied around with raffia, moving it first to the left then squaring it off until she was satisfied that it looked just right. She had ordered the book especially, recollections of the local area which included several references to Calico House. Ever since he first came to the village and saw the place, John had been compiling a history. Ellie recalled his smile and wondered about the gift he had for her; most likely something ridiculously expensive, she hoped he would be pleased with her small offering.

She had stood here on similar clement evenings; alone on the balcony at Calico House, when John was working somewhere far away. Gus would always be there, just in the right place, a paw’s length from getting under her feet. From this viewpoint Berriwood was a picture-book place, imperfections masterfully layered under a glaze of rural bliss. Trees rustled lightly, cows grazed and the river, always the river; beyond the garden gates, it sang and gurgled or surged and roared. Further still lay the quiet, winding road, too deeply stitched into the surrounding countryside to attract much traffic; the village tucked snugly within its folds.

She wasn’t lonely exactly. There was always more than enough to do, the house to manage, mother to attend but, these days, she did feel somewhat disconnected. Her marriage to John and subsequent move to Calico House had, effectively, deadheaded her from the village where she had grown up in a modest bed. She saw herself as a buttercup transplanted amongst soaring spires, with every expectation that one day she would be recognised for what she really was and weeded out.

When the first unnerving thought bubbled up and popped into the forefront of her mind Ellie was back downstairs, making coffee. She paused, absently allowing the carton she was holding to tip back to the upright position, so that the flow of cream she was carefully transferring into a small china jug stopped abruptly.

They’ve been gone a while….

Her eyes flicked down to her left as her wrist co-operatively swivelled and she registered the time at almost half past eight.

How long?

Had to be half an hour at least.

She drained the last drops of cream from the carton and, pressing her bare foot down onto the pedal, tossed the empty container into the gaping mouth of the flip-top bin.

Gus had been in a state of feverish excitement since John arrived home, fussing around him with that hyperactive tail of his swatting everything in its path. Ornaments and low-lying beverages beware! No doubt he would be reduced to a tongue lolling, old-man amble, on the home run. Ellie padded across the kitchen, picked up the bowl from the corner. It had GUS painted on the side in chunky brown letters. She filled it with fresh water and placed it, at the ready, down by his basket.

When the time had stretched to forty-five minutes, Ellie indulged herself in a few martyred moments of annoyance. They were little more than a token gesture, a pacifier to her self esteem because the last thing she would have done was spoil the evening by becoming angry with John. Besides, it really wasn’t anger she was feeling; in truth she was a little hurt. He had said he wouldn’t be long.

It’s been almost an hour

Diane:

Though Diane Henderson was much closer than Ellie to the commotion already playing out down in the village, she too was unaware of the unfolding drama. It was just as well. Her mind was already occupied at full capacity; repel all boarders, capsize imminent.

Gabriel Cole had been as funny and heart warming and passionate about his cause as ever and so God damned attractive that he should carry a health warning. The money had rolled in; the day was a success. She was a success.

Her plan had been to prepare a casserole the moment the last guest had left. She knew there would be plenty of time; Neil was nothing if not reliable in his unfailing ability to be home late.

By now their evening meal should have been cleverly turned down to a bare simmer to await her husband’s return and in the meantime she should have been enjoying the well deserved pleasure of a glass of good red; savouring the taste along with the triumphs of the day.

As Diane stuffed sheets into the laundry bin an image of the raw chicken still squatting in a bowl of marinade flashed through her mind. Oh God! It would have to be Pizza and salad, she would tell Neil the party had gone on much longer than expected; everyone was having such a good time.

There were more pressing matters to attend to. She needed to tidy up downstairs and get into the shower, as hot as she could stand it.

Or should she revise that to cold?

After everyone had left she and Gabriel had talked. He had thanked her again, profusely, embarrassingly. He had opened a bottle of champagne.

I just couldn’t manage without people like you Di. Times are hard. Another one of my ladies has taken on full time work and says she doesn’t have time for the charity anymore.

How are things with Hope? Diane had asked. He was having money problems, marriage problems; there was too much sympathy exchanging hands.

He had shaken his head, Neil?

Same old thing, work, work, work.

She wasn’t a paragon of virtue like Ellie or some pimply, love-struck teenager. She knew.

Champagne, for God’s sake; not a cup of Earl Gray and a Viennese Whirl. They both knew what was going to happen.

She was still stuffing sheets into the laundry bin when the doorbell rang. Her first thought was that Neil had arrived back early and without his key again. If he was back it was all over. No amounts of luck, quick thinking or barefaced lies were going to pull her out of the hole she had dug for herself. She might as well hand him a spade and quietly wait for the dirt to bury her.

She hesitated, thinking momentarily but bizarrely of escape, anything but the shame of having to look him in the eye.

The bell rang again. A figure was stood very close to the door glass. It had that distorted underwater look, enough for her to have difficulty making out who it was but, as she made her way down the stairs she realised one thing, it wasn’t Neil. This person’s frame was small and a bright red top swam below the face. Not her suited, head almost to the top of the doorframe, husband. She breathed a short sigh of relief. Thank you, thank you God! Your Place, Sunday. I’ll bring cash.

Diane opened the door just enough to show her face.

A voice rang out. ‘It’s only me!’

Caroline Duke in her best, jolly tone. What the hell was she doing, turning up uninvited?

‘Sorry, had you gone up for an early night?’ the earnest, elfin face asked. The maturing bruise was advancing down one side of her nose, the skin puffed and shiny.

Diane instinctively pulled the robe together at her neck a little more tightly but she couldn’t hide her face where her make up was in places it shouldn’t be, and her hair was tucked untidily behind her ears. She saw Caroline’s unsure eyes flick down to her bare toes and back again. ‘No, no, I was just getting changed.’

Caroline shuffled on the doorstep but the awkward silence didn’t galvanise her into the next and only possible action, which was for her to go.

‘Look, I just dropped by to pick up that green thread we talked about, remember?’

Diane gritted her teeth and bit back her impatience.

‘And I brought you these,‘ Caroline extricated a carton of Quality Street from a plastic carrier bag and presented the box on both hands, like a slipper on a velvet cushion, ‘Just to say thank you...for listening to all my troubles.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, thank you, you shouldn’t have.’ Diane paused. …. ‘I would ask you in, Caroline, but I’ve had a hectic day; we had the Hope Foundation lunch and I was just about to get in the shower. Neil’s due back, you know, it’s all a bit of a rush this evening.’

‘I would love to come sometime but, twenty-five pounds… you know Pete, he would go nuts.’

This was no time for another cosy tête-à-tête about her bloody husband but, as she didn’t budge, Diane took the chocolates saying, ‘just a minute then…I’ll get the cotton for you.’

Her head felt fit to explode. Thread, thread, she was twittering to herself like a centre-stage madwoman when she realised Caroline hadn’t waited at the door as Diane had intended. She was right behind her, hovering on the threshold of the sitting room where the oak floor bordered beige shag pile.

‘You must be up to your eyes in washing up... I could help you.’

Diane turned, startled, from the open sewing basket on the bureau, the thread in her hand, "No really, Caroline, thanks again.’

Caroline took the thread, performed a bizarre juggling act with it and watched it slip through her fingers, roll out across the carpet, ‘Oh butterfingers,’ she muttered, hurriedly retrieving it, winding the loose cotton back around the bobbin.

Her eyes were skittering beyond Diane into the room. The thick red candles on the pale mantelpiece, the fat white sofa; her gaze stopped and held as it reached the expansive, glass coffee table. Diane’s eyes followed her, seeing with horror, almost as if for the first time, the two empty champagne glasses. They stood there in a puddle of golden liquid; the empty bottle perched at a tipsy angle by the edge of the hearth a few feet away. Barely an hour ago, Gabriel had slid a finger beneath the ruched band of her pink silk panties and eased them down, down. Now she saw they were draped there, soaking up the pooled champagne, a shockingly damning still life of this thing she was guilty of. Diane exchanged a momentary glance with Caroline and saw the blood surge up through her face like a flash flood.

‘Diane, I’m so sorry I disturbed you. I’d better be getting back, Pete will be home soon and shouting for his bacon sandwich,’ Caroline spluttered, even though it was a good couple of hours before closing time. ‘He’s not safe with a frying pan after the booze.’

Diane bustled after her, desperately wanting to explain. If there had been time she would have grabbed her, sat her down, come up with some story that sounded half plausible. But Caroline was already at the gate, hot and flustered, pulling a disintegrating tissue out of her trouser pocket and dabbing at the eye that was ripening to a livid purple.

‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’ Diane called after her. ‘I’ll ring you.’

Just as she closed the door, she heard the sound of emergency vehicles approaching somewhere down in the valley, getting louder, some poor sod in trouble. Then she immediately dismissed it from her mind. She had enough problems of her own.

Ellie:

Now there really was nothing more she could find to occupy her mind. Everything was tidied away and the last drops of coffee were dripping through the filter. A tray was waiting to be carried upstairs with cups and cream and four, handmade chocolate mints on a silver doily.

And still there was no sign of them.

She carried up the tray anyway; stepping out again on to the balcony she realised the May evening had cooled. The bright, sunny day was ending unexpectedly with a column of fat cloud hustling in from the east, ganging up on the fading sun and threatening spits of rain. The tea lights that she had so rashly lit in readiness were caught by a sudden squall of wind. The little flames cavorted, bowed and died.

The trees along Riverbank Lane shook themselves in an advancing wave, like a stadium crowd cheering for gold. She watched as the leaves rippled their shades of black and green against the darkening sky and listened to the river with its ever-present sounds. That dull undertone, along with a discomforting, sense of some impending misfortune, spawned a shiver at the nape of her neck. It crawled downwards and out across her back; a noiseless reverberating chill sending her scuttling back inside to pick up a sweater from the blanket box at the end of the bed.

A cold agitation settled over her, setting her fingers drumming out her worries, like a mayday call, on the windowsill. Her mind raced to sift through the jumble of possibilities it insisted on throwing up for closer scrutiny.

From the house to the end of Riverbank Lane was a fragrant ten -minute walk. A backbone of sticky mud lined the narrow, gravel road; it had lately been transformed into a mat of luxurious, thickly woven grass that padded the space between the tyre tracks. To the left was a lush, towering hedgerow of campions and foxgloves. On the right, a low, dry stonewall, old and crumbling, was saved from complete disintegration by the knot and tangle of vegetation. Below the wall was a steep bank and the constant rush and tumble of water, black as tar under a night sky but brilliant with life and colour in sunlight, the invigorated waters fleeing their high birthplace in a state of perpetual, boiling turmoil.

At the end of the lane was the main road and Berriwood Bridge, full of its own importance with ancient, pitted ramparts and a little hump back like a sleeping giant. There they might pause to rest, take in the view or chat with a chance passer-by but then they would turn for home. That bridge marked an invisible boundary. The ravages of age Gus had eluded for so long had